


pull me back from things divine

by akingdomofunicorns



Series: hold me in this wild, wild world [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s08e02 A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, F/M, Show centric, Spoilers for Episode: S08E02, guess i'm the captain of this ship now, title from the same bastille song as part 1 because i'm emo wbk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:34:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingdomofunicorns/pseuds/akingdomofunicorns
Summary: Her heart does a little skip. A tiny one, really. Barely noticeable, promise, so it could mean anything or nothing at all. Certainly, it means nothing at all.(Sansa and Theon sup together before the world must come to an end)





	pull me back from things divine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kihoverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihoverse/gifts).



They make a sorry bunch, these farmers who have never held a sword. But, alas, their greatest soldiers were butchered at The Twins, and the rest are southron knights with blood as thin as water. She supposes the Wildlings will have to do, and the Iron Born could pass for northerners; the Queen’s men… those are another matter altogether, but she is glad for their numbers fattening their lines, less so for their mouths dwindling her supplies.

Sansa tries not to stare as she crosses the camp. She does not want their despair staining her cloak, her skin, her hair; she means to survive, and their rancid breath and sullen eyes mean to extinguish the little flame of hope that burns pale in the spaces of her ribcage. They cannot touch her, and they cannot break her, and they cannot reach her.

A wildling woman hands her a bowl of broth without a word and leaves her be without a curtsey. Sansa supposes she could take a lesson or two from the Free Folk on how to face the Queen. But then again, Jon frolicked around with them and still he bent the knee.

She doesn’t know what to do, or where to sit. She cannot eat among the Unsullied, she will not gift Daenerys with that concession, and she will not eat among the wildlings, lest they steal her for a wife. She spots Theon further ahead, soaking bread on broth, and her heart does a little skip. A tiny one, really. Barely noticeable, promise, so it could mean anything or nothing at all. Certainly, it means nothing at all. She is just happy to see a friendly face among all her scared subjects.

“Is this seat taken?”

Theon looks up from his food, startled for a moment. He isn’t used, yet, to being treated like a human. And, she supposes, people haven’t been too friendly with him, either. Some parts of Winterfell are still in ruins, courtesy of the Greyjoys, first, and the Boltons, after. It takes him a moment, but he smiles, a small tilt of his lips, just visible enough for her to catch.

“No, my lady.”

She sits, resting the bowl on her knees.

“You used to call me Sansa.”

“I don’t think your brother would like that.”

“There’s a great many deal of things my brother doesn’t like and wouldn’t like. There’s also a great many deal of things my brother does that I do not like. Yet here we are.”

Theon laughs, then, true and loud. It is almost hearty, almost alive enough that she is reminded of the man he used to be, back when she was a child and neither of them was broken and abused. His sunken cheeks and ashy skin hide the handsome face he sported, but she can still make out the lines and features that used to make her friend Jeyne blush like a maiden from a song. He’s lost a couple of teeth and a couple of his fingers, she knows, and Ramsay cut his manhood, but he is still alive, as is she, and that is all that matters. They cannot get back the things they lost, but they can keep on moving forward, surviving each day, enjoying the air that fills their lungs.

“You look like your mother when you smile,” Theon says.

Sansa is startled to know she was smiling.

“Well, some say I always look like my mother.”

Theon, as unsure as he always is, returns her smile.

“You always reminded me of Ned. You were as unapproachable as he was. I suppose you still are.”

A chuckle rises up her throat.

“I do not trust easily, not anymore. But I was not unapproachable, back then, I was naïve… like most children are.”

Theon shakes his head. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, reaching his eyes, but he ignores it. Sansa is tempted to reach her hand and tuck it behind his ear, but that would be too improper. Her brother is… was the King, she must behave perfectly, always.

“Naïve, and perfect, and always expecting everyone around you to be a certain way. You wanted knights to be handsome and honorable, and ladies to be fair and innocent. Your father expected much of me, as well. I fear I never lived up to the expectations.”

“You are too hard on yourself, Theon.”

“Aye, as I should be. I took your castle, Sansa. I betrayed Robb, and still, I failed my father, so it was for naught. Robb died, and I wasn’t there to save him, I wasn’t there to die with him. He is the only brother I have ever known, and I threw him away in hopes that old sod I called a father would love me. I was stupid.”

“You were naïve,” Sansa offers. She can’t help herself, she reaches forward to touch his arm. Comfort is all she can give him.

“Aye, I was. When I was young, I thought that if I was a good ward, if I was a good little _hostage_ , your father would give me one of his daughters to wed, and I’d be a Stark, I’d be his true son, Robb’s true brother. That’s all I ever wanted, to be your family. But I wasn’t.”

To Hell with property, she thinks. What good has it done her, anyway? And who cares about property, when Death is almost at their door? She takes her hand from his arm and reaches to tuck the annoying strand of hair behind his ear. She always knew his hair would be soft and silken. If she weren’t a King’s sister, she’d lurch forward and kiss his lips. If she were Arya, she’d do it regardless. But she isn’t, so she is content with what she has. The look on his eyes is priceless, and she knows he’d like to kiss her, too.

“When the war is won, let your sister rule Pyke. Stay with us. We are the only family you have ever known. Do not die, don’t you dare die. Your debt is paid, you paid with blood and pain and honor. You saved me. Stay, let us rebuild Winterfell. Let us watch as Arya raises bastard pups, as Jon makes stupid decisions. Let us try and bring Bran back. Stay. Please”

He’s got the look of a puppy who’s been kicked one too many times. His vulnerability tugs at the strings of her heart. There are no more sworn enemies in this battle for survival, and she is glad for that; how can she explain to Jon that she has forgiven Theon all his sins? Greater men than him have promised her the world, but she is tired of gods and kings. Let them have their crowns and thrones, their silks and jewels. When the war is done and the North is free, once her brother sits his throne again, she’ll allow herself to be wild and daring, she’ll allow herself to kiss Theon on the lips.

He nods, and that is that. They still have a long night ahead.


End file.
